


Ungodly Hour

by swordgirl



Category: Shakespeare & Hathaway: Private Investigators (TV)
Genre: F/M, Genital Piercing, Hand Feeding, Human Furniture, Knives, Nipple Piercings, Subspace, Threats of Violence, Tongue Piercings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23318914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordgirl/pseuds/swordgirl
Summary: Written for the TAD server, so Callum Ballimore can show off his arms and get the praise he so richly deserves.
Relationships: Callum Ballimore/Original Character
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

“If you would please check under your seat!” declares Pross’ assistant, Maddie. Her lipstick is so bright that you can see her wide grin. She turns from one side of the audience to the other, looking for something, making her dark hair start to slip out of its elaborate braid.

You check under your seat and find nothing, so you check your date’s seat as well. Actually, you check the seat you reserved for the cute guy at the coffee shop across the street who never showed up. Asshole. For the first time, it occurs to you that you’re going to have to find a whole new coffeeshop. Double asshole.

Wait, what the hell is that?

“I got it!” you hold the card in the air. “Wait, what have I got?” you lower your hand to ask.

“Step right down,” Pross gestures. The usher shines his flashlight on the floor so you can make sure not to step on anyone’s toes, and you walk down so Maddie can drape a large velvet sheet over you.

“This way, please,” she says, pushing you to where Pross has opened the iron maiden. You know it’s your imagination, because the police would keep murder weapons, but is that blood at the metal rim at the bottom?

“Actually, is it too late to go to the bathroom?” you ask. God, your voice is too high. And also that space looks so small that your knees start knocking into each other and you almost fall over. “I’m a little claustrophobic,” you try to say, but now you can’t get enough air.

Maddie starts to say something, but Pross is starting to push you too now. Finding it too hard to keep your balance, you’re forced to move into the iron maiden. The door starts to close, and you want to hold your hands out in front of you to keep the space from getting even smaller, except said door is covered in fucking _spikes_. Shit, shit, shit. And those spikes are getting closer.

The ground falls out from under you, and you lose what little control over your panic you had. A shriek falls out of your throat, but the air gets knocked out of your lungs when you land on a soft mattress. Before you can get it back, there’s an even softer voice asking if you’re okay.

“Yeah, just, ah fuck,” your claustrophobia, already cranked up to a thousand from the iron maiden that is somehow above you now, is getting triggered a second time in as many seconds by the fact that you cannot. Get. Out. Of. This. Sheet.

“Can I help?” the soft voice asks again.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” you say. You’re not afraid of people as you are of confined spaces, and anything that gets you out of this velvet burrito faster can only be good.

Careful fingers find the end of the sheet and lift it off your knees without making contact with you, and all of a sudden you can wiggle out. Behind you, there’s thunderous applause.

“I would congratulate you for getting me out of that,” you nod to the sheet that’s pooling on the mattress before pointing in the audience’s direction, “but they’re doing it for me.”

The man with the soft voice and careful fingers gives a nervous laugh. “It wasn’t difficult,” he shrugs with his hands gripping his forearms, and suddenly you realize that he’s scared of something, too.

“Well, thank you,” you say a little louder and steadier. It’s always been easier to push aside your own fears when you’re confronted with someone else’s. You stick out your hand in front of him, and it takes a while, but eventually he takes it.

“Really, it wasn’t difficult. I’ve done this hundreds of times,” oh, so that’s what people mean when they say a smile can light up a room.

“Well, this is the first time you’ve done it for me. I gotta admit, I’m a little embarrassed. I read about what the iron maiden did to Ms. Shipley-” you don’t miss how he tenses again at the name “-in the news, and I was a little scared to get in, but it looks like I was just being irrational.” You know your laugh is self-deprecating to the point of self-pity, but you let it out anyway.

“I was a bit irrational myself,” he says shyly. “I kept squinting at the trapdoor,” he gestures upward, and his eyes flicker around the ceiling at something you can’t see. “I wanted to make sure there wasn’t any blood coming out. But it’s so dark down here, a lot of the shadows looked like spreading blood.” He’s staring at the trapdoor now, and he’s shaking a little.

You put your hand on his arm and squeeze a little yourself. “Hey,” you say in what you hope is a good imitation of his own soft, soothing voice. “Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not there. I’m fine, see?” you step back and spread your arms so every part of you is visible. “Feel free to check me out,” you flutter your eyelashes faux-seductively.

He chuckles before saying, “I should take you back,” at the same time you ask his name.

You both pause for a moment. With disappointment curling in your gut, you ask, “Right, where’s the exit?” at the same time he says, “Callum Ballimore.”

This time, you both giggle.

“Right this way, madam,” Callum bows and gestures with Pross-like grandiosity. You giggle again, and you swear you can feel the warmth of his smile on your retreating back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for threats of violence, made at knifepoint.

The rest of the magic show is honestly a little bit boring. To be fair, it’s because you now find the stage manager so interesting that your eyes flick to him every few seconds like he’s a magnet.

As soon as the show is over, the audience almost tramples you on their way to fawn over the magician. This is actually okay, because it leaves you free to go to the stage manager. You wish you’d spent the time you wasted not watching the magic show thinking of something cooler to say than, “I wanted to thank you again.”

“Um, no, uh, no problem,” his eyes flick up and down your body, probably to check for wounds again. All of a sudden, he notices what he’s doing and turns away so you’re treated to a great view of his reddening cheek.

“So, have you worked here long?” god, why are you so shit at this?

“A few years,” he still can’t meet your eyes.

“I thought so. You move around the stage like you live here.” Is that a compliment, or is he going to think you’re insinuating he’s homeless? “I just mean, you do a really good job.”

He blushes even harder, and his hand reaches up to play with the ends of his hair. His voice is gruff when he thanks you. This close, you can see a little buttercup in his nose, and, well, you’ve never seen a piercing you didn’t want to curl your tongue around.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but your accent, you’re not from around here, are you?” he asks.

“It’s fine. I know, my accent,” you roll your eyes. “I am, unfortunately, American.”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly. He’s looking you in the eye now, and you can feel every callus on the hand he has on your arm. “Your accent is very cute.”

You burst into laughter. “Okay, now I know what you look like when you’re lying. Literally nobody thinks American accents are cute, and that includes Americans.”

“Maybe it’s just the person who’s speaking it then.”

You search his expression, but you can’t figure out what it is.

“Oi, Callum, are you going to close up or not?” Pross says sharply. Maddie whispers something in his ear, and he adds, “You did a good job for your first job coming back today.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pross,” he nods. “I’ll get on that right away.”

Pross waits until Callum’s gone to make a lewd gesture until Maddie forces his hands to his sides.

“Sorry,” she mouths as she pushes Pross away.

You shake your head and wave your hand dismissively. You’re about to go when you see Callum putting his whole body into pushing the iron maiden to the backstage prop area. “Do you need any help?” you ask.

“I got it,” he says, but his voice is strained, so you turn around and you grab a box you’re too proud to admit is super heavy. You wince from the sound it makes when you drop it too heavily on the floor next to the iron maiden. When you go with him back onto the stage, he grabs a bag of swords himself and hands you a light box. Thank goodness, because when you see the way the muscles in his arms strain against the weight of the swords, you almost drop it.

Luckily, everything else the magicians use seems to be lighter, and you two settle into a nice silence as you put everything away. You get to admire those arms again when Callum drops the curtain and ties the rope, then he flicks the lights off and you exit the theater together.

You pull the bus schedule out of your back pocket, and just your luck, the only bus back to the hotel stopped running more than an hour ago. You look up and down the street, but it’s empty except for you, Callum, and distant figure. Only after you pull out your phone do you remember that your data plan doesn’t include international coverage. “Fuck. What are the chances I could get a cab at this ungodly hour?” you ask Callum.

“Well, where do you live?” he asks. “I don’t mean it like that!” he adds hastily. “I just mean, is it far from here? I could walk you home. If you’re okay with it. I’m not a creep, I promise.”

“That sounds exactly like what a creep would say,” you can’t help saying. You let him sputter for a few more seconds before taking pity. “It’s pretty far, though, and, I mean, you’re a strong guy,” you mock-punch him in the arm, “but I wouldn’t let you walk me that far. I mean, then you’d have to walk home alone, and I won’t let you do that. Do you have a car? I’ll pay you for gas.”

“It’s at my apartment, but that’s just a few blocks down, if you don’t mind the walk,” Callum gestures.

Before you could agree, you feel the flat end of a knife pressing against the back of your neck. You stumble forward instinctively to get away from the knife, too sharply to keep your balance. The pavement rushes toward you, but Callum’s arms wrap around you and physically lifts you entirely into the air, depositing you behind him.

“Listen, whatever it is you want, I’m sure we can work it out,” he says, arms held above his head.

“I want your phones and cash. Hers too,” wow, you weren’t expecting to hear such a young voice.

“Fuck off,” you start to drag Callum toward you, planning on running across the empty street.

But Callum only moves to step fully between you and that knife so that you can’t even see what the mugger is doing. “Just take it, please,” his hands are shaking as he reaches into his pocket, and his voice breaks when the mugger swipes his knife across the air. “Please, I saw a woman get stabbed to death in front of me last week, I can’t handle seeing it again.” He squeaks again when he knife gets close enough to slice off a lock of his hair.

You take advantage of his distraction to reach into your purse and step forward. “I said fuck off!” you scream.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Callum hisses, starting to pull you back again.

“Yeah, listen to your boyfriend before I cut you,” the mugger holds up his-

“Holy shit, is that a butter knife?” you’re almost giddy with relief.

“I can gut you with this!” the idiot threatens.

“Not before I gut you with this,” and you flick your thumb stud knife open. You very, very, _very_ narrowly avoid telling him that yours is bigger. You’re trying to defend Callum, not start a fight. Seeing a man die in front of him would probably not do him any favors. “Run away, child.”

Your discretion pays off when the would-be robber runs off in the opposite direction. You turn around when he’s far away enough to no longer be a threat, prepared to apologize to Callum for scaring him. Only when you actually see him, he’s not white as a sheet and terrified, but red in the face. The reason is also pretty obvious in his tight jeans.

“So, you said you live a few blocks from here?” you ask, innocently sliding the blade back in the handle to put in your purse. You already faced down a mugger at knifepoint, might as well see where your boldness can get you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: poorly-negotiated kink, human furniture, and consensual noncon. Since it's the first time I'm writing those last two, content criticism regarding this chapter will be accepted only if it relates to that. Otherwise, I don't care. As usual, grammar and stylistic criticism is always accepted. Enjoy!

“Here we are,” Callum gestures to a turquoise door covered in stickers from heavy metal bands. “You’re not going to get in trouble for not going to your hotel, are you?” he asks as he takes out his keys.

“My company’s paying for my entire three-day hotel stay, so the only thing I’d be missing is a dry, flavorless breakfast,” you answer. “I’m sure yours will be much tastier.”

“That was a terrible come on,” he informs you frankly.

“Yeah, I know,” you laugh, because his considerable bulge has not subsided, and you wonder how strong his knife kink is if your corny lines can’t break it.

Very strong, it turns out, because the second the door is locked behind you, he kneels and bares his neck. “Put the knife right here,” he points to his Adam’s apple. “I want to feel it when I swallow.”

You thumb your knife open and press the dull end it against where he pointed. He exhales heavily and closes his eyes, but there’s still a line of tension running down his shoulders.

“If you’re going to be kneeling, you’ll need a pillow, because I don’t plan on letting you up for a very long time,” you say in a low tone you hope sounds threatening. “Get up.” You accompany this order by putting the very tip of the knife against his chin, just enough to see it dimple.

When Callum is standing again, you return the knife to his neck and look around the room for something with a cushion. Unfortunately, all his chairs are wooden, and there’s two plastic white lawn chairs on the balcony. The only thing left is the threadbare couch in front of, oh my god, that television has to be older than you are.

“Come with me,” you hold his gaze while you walk backward toward the couch. “Take the cushion and drop it on the floor,” you hate that you’re looking up at him when you give the order. But you’ll rectify that soon enough.

He obeys you without breaking eye contact. His knees buckle like he’s about to drop straight onto the cushion, but you press the knife just a little bit tighter against his skin. “Did I tell you to kneel?”

“No, boss,” his throat bobs in a swallow, and his eyes flutter at the sensation. Then his eyes fly open and he goes entirely still, like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he moves even a little. You feel bigger than him despite the height disparity, a sensation you’re starting to enjoy, so you let him hold his breath for a few more seconds.

“Kneel now,” you say finally, lowering the knife just a bit.

He kneels slowly, going at your pace, and keeping his eyes on yours the whole time so you can see them get all soft and adoring when his knees hit the cushion. You almost kneel in front of him too, but at the last second you manage to correct yourself and sit down on the couch instead.

“What do y-tell me what you want to do.”

“Just this,” his voice is hoarse, like he’s asleep. “Just give me orders.”

Well, that won’t be difficult. At this angle, the buttercup on his nose glitters when he breathes and his nose flares just a little.

“Do you have piercings anywhere else?”

He opens his mouth obediently, and you don’t know how you missed the little ball on his tongue. You’re so busy thinking about how fun it’ll be to lick it that you don’t notice he’s having trouble removing his shirt until he starts making distressed noises.

“Arms up,” you bark, and you lift the shirt over his head. He has little dandelion charms through his nipples, which you drop the shirt to play with. This close, you can feel when his shallow, hitched breaths turn into a hiss. You look down, and he’s trying to undo his jeans with shaking hands.

“I said arms up,” you remind him. Immediately, he raises his arms in the air and freezes. You cup his groin and give a squeeze to see what he would do, which was apparently sound like you just punched him in the stomach. But his arms stayed up, and besides his rapid breathing, he didn’t move anything else. “Good job, Callum,” you whisper in his ear. Goosebumps dot his skin, but he doesn’t shiver. “I think you deserve a reward, hmm?” You take off his pants, and-

Holy shit. You have to force yourself to stop staring the little bead on the reverse Prince Albert, glimmering in the light. It would probably feel better than it looks, anyway.

“Play with the little dandelions, darling,” you press the knife against his neck even harder, enough for even the dull side of the blade to leave a red mark, “or else.” Callum’s mouth falls open, and you take advantage to lick the ball on his tongue. You run one finger down his side, until your hand is right next to that beautiful piercing, and he’s shivering with anticipation. So you reach up and stroke his hair instead. He sobs into your mouth and you can feel his tears trickling down your cheek.

“I know you want more, but you’re going to have to earn it,” you say, drawing back. “Tell me what your favorite food is that you have in this apartment.”

“Chocolate-covered pretzels,” you think he says. His tongue doesn’t seem to be working.

“Speak clearly, and tell me where they are,” you do your best imitation of a drill sargeant.

Maybe it works, or maybe Callum’s just slipped into that space where any reprimand is too much. “Th-the cabinet next to the fridge, bottom shelf.”

“You’re so obedient and sweet,” you pet his head again and you swear, he honest to god purrs. “Get on all fours and wait for me, I’ll bring you something sweet, too.”

You don’t bother turning back when you get the treat, because you know he’s going to obey you. Sure enough, he’s on his hands and knees, the perfect place for you to rest your feet. So you do. You turn the television on to something that’s hopefully not the news because you don’t want to get distracted by the state of the world, open the bag of pretzels, and grab one to slide into his mouth. His lips are warm over your fingers, and you can feel their imprint long after you withdraw your hand.


End file.
